A Picture is Worth
by milverton
Summary: The Morning After.


It's the nausea that wakes him.

John propels himself out of bed, clutching his stomach, and runs toward the door.

He isn't going to make it, there's no fucking way, it's already, it's_ Christ fucking Almighty_—

At the top of the stairs he stops and swallows the vomit down. He groans, disgusted, feeling disgusting, and shuffles back into his bedroom, stomach churning.

The nausea passes. John breathes in deeply, exhales. The stranger in his bed stirs.

_The stranger._

_In his bed._

John doesn't know how _that_ happened. _She _is a person he doesn't know, in his bed.

Well.

The stranger, the nausea, John's state of undress and John's general lack of memories leads him to believe that he must have had a cracking good time last night.

John vainly checks himself out in the mirror, feeling pleased with his drunken accomplishments, until the nausea returns full-throttle and he vomits onto the floor. "Shit," John hisses, wiping his mouth with his forearm.

"Ew." John looks up to see his gorgeous, _young, really young, too young,_ bedfellow watching him with utter repulsion.

"Good morning?" John ventures.

"Oh, god," she says in a crisp American accent, her expression quickly changing into one of pain. "My fucking head."

"Yeah," John agrees, placing a discarded shirt over the mess on the floor. He will just have to deal with it later. He rummages for a clean pair of pants and slips them on. The girl is already out of bed and stomping around to collect her clothes, which are strewn across his bedroom. John watches her movements, intrigued. "I'm sorry, really, I am, but how…who are you?"

"Jasmine," she says coldly, pulling up her skirt over her pants. "Don't bother to tell me your life story. I don't want to hear it, I don't care. I'm leaving now."

John purses his lips, slightly offended by her not wanting to hear his life story and by her presuming he would want to even tell her his life story. "Er, all right. But how—"

"Dunno," she says dismissively. She hooks her bra, puts on her shirt in one swift motion, struggles into her high heels and heads for the door. John watches her go wordlessly. She's gone one moment then back the next. "Oh. I almost forgot. My friends and I have this thing. Like, a game. Where we see who can sleep with the oldest guy on our nights out. Soooo." She appraises him. "How old are you?"

John frowns at her. "You really think that's the safest thing to do?"

She scowls. "Excuse you. I'm twenty. I'm a big girl."

John tries to ignore the fact that he'd actually slept with someone who had only _just_ made it out of her teen years. "Fine. I'm thirty-four," he says, to spite her.

She guffaws. "Yeah right."

"Oi!"

"You look _at least_ forty-two."

"Can you just leave now?" John says bitingly.

"Whatever. I'm telling the girls you're forty-two. Bye, grandpa."

"Jesus Christ," John hisses as she storms down the stairs_. _

He moves to the mirror to examine himself, grabs his fleshy stomach and jiggles it. It's not that bad. He lets go and frowns. "Forty-two my arse," John whispers. He thinks he can pass for _at least_ thirty-five.

John soon notices his sternum displays a mysterious brown substance, which is also strategically placed on both of his nipples. He rubs his finger into a nipple, brings the finger to his tongue, prays that it will taste as he hopes it to taste. "Oh, thank god," he says, extremely relieved to confirm that it's only chocolate.

It's then that he decides it's probably time to take a shower, so he shuffles out of his room and down the stairs.

The state of the sitting room is one he'd never thought he'd see.

Besides the hurricane that seems to have passed through, Sally and Anderson are sleeping atop each other on the sofa and they're both stripped down to their pants. Anderson's flush atop Sally and looks like he's free-falling.

Then there's Greg.

John has to smack a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. Greg's passed out against the fireplace and is wearing a rather poorly-fitted kiss-o-gram police costume. It's quite possibly the funniest thing John's ever seen in his _entire life._

The shirt Greg wears exposes a swath of his tan, fleshy stomach, and the short-shorts expose miles of hairy legs. And, to complete the ensemble, he's wearing black stilettos that are too small for his feet.

John's laughing so hard into his hand that tears start welling in his eyes.

The more John looks the funnier it gets, so John needs to extricate himself from the room in order to compose himself.

\\

In the shower, John finds the brown substance slathered on his balls. He couldn't be more relieved to find that it's also chocolate.

\\

After the shower he goes to the kitchen to forage for bread since his stomach is practically eating itself inside out.

There, he finds Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table, looking completely miserable—hair standing every which way, pyjamas thoroughly wrinkled, expression like thunder—clicking away at John's laptop.

"Good morning," John attempts, not even bothering to scold Sherlock for his irritating lack of concern for John's boundaries.

"It really isn't," Sherlock barks, snarling, not averting his eyes from the laptop screen.

"You can't tell me that one look at Greg didn't make your morning a good one." John resists turning around and looking at Greg again, because he knows he'll lose it.

Sherlock glances over and turns back to the laptop with a smirk. "All right, maybe it helps a bit."

John shares a quiet giggle with Sherlock at that. "What the hell did we do last night? I can't remember a god damn thing."

Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly, stands and motions for John to sit in his place. "Have a look for yourself," he says cryptically.

John takes Sherlock's seat and sees a photo on the laptop's screen.

In the photo, they're all at a pub. Sally's neck is thrown back, she's presumably laughing at a comment Anderson's just made since he's looking at the camera with a smug expression. Greg has his arm around John's shoulder, they're both grinning and holding up pints of beer in a kind of salute. Sherlock's beside John looking bored with the world.

In the next photo, Jasmine makes her first appearance. She and John are captured dancing rather intimately on the pub's makeshift dance floor alongside Sally and Anderson, who are dancing but also looking toward the camera with bright smiles. Greg is sandwiched between scantily clad Eastern European-looking twins and he looks absolutely thrilled to be alive. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

In the third photo, Sally and Anderson are flailing their arms wildly in what John presumes is a type of dance, and Greg's kissing one of the twins rather heatedly. Surprisingly, Sherlock is dancing with the other twin or perhaps himself since he's standing practically 500 metres away from her, as if she has the plague. He is also looking over his shoulder at John and Jasmine, who are posing for the photo. Jasmine is doing a kissy-face at John and John is doing a cheesy, over-exaggerated wink for the camera.

The next few photos are in similar vein until there's a shuffling of dance partners—Jasmine pairs with Greg, Sally pairs with a twin, Anderson pairs with the other twin. Anderson is doing a 'thumbs up' for the camera and is glowing with pride. Sherlock and John aren't present.

After several more photos, John can tell when Sally, Greg, Anderson and Jasmine have become collectively drunk. He wonders of his and Sherlock's mysterious absences.

After awhile, Sherlock and John reappear. The photos's venues start changing more rapidly while the amount of photos taken at the venues decrease.

At some point, they're out on the pavement. Greg's wearing a plastic crown and is grinning at the camera, motioning gleefully and insistently to someone off-camera; his arm is around Jasmine's waist. Jasmine is looking up at Greg in awe, like he's some kind of otherworldly being. Or perhaps she's seeing double.

In another photo, Anderson is cowering in fear as Sally is mid-slap to his face. Sherlock has trapped John against a shop's door and he's pushing John's stomach with his head, like a drunken bull. John is laughing. Greg is blowing a kiss to someone off-camera as Jasmine is trying to slap his hand down.

Then they're at another pub. Sally is sitting on Anderson's lap, forcing Anderson's face into her breasts and winking at the camera. Greg's forehead is hitting the bar. John's hand is resting on Sherlock's thigh, their heads are bowed closed together, and they seem to be engaged in a deep discussion about something. Jasmine is trying to stop Greg from banging his head.

Then they're back out on the street. John's arm is around Sherlock's waist and Sherlock's arm is around John's shoulders. John is looking at his feet and Sherlock is looking at John with a contemplative expression. Jasmine is clinging to Greg, and he looks like he's trying to pry her off while he yells at someone off-camera. Sally and Anderson are nowhere to be seen.

In another photo, Sally and Greg are waltzing together in the middle of a deserted street. Anderson is sprawled out on the ground near them, in an empty parking spot, and Jasmine's astride him and pinching his cheek. John is holding Sherlock up against the bonnet of a car, and Sherlock's legs are clumsily wrapped around John's waist.

Finally, they're outside 221b. Sally and Anderson look like they are trying to pull the numbers '221' off the door. Greg's donned the kiss-o-gram outfit, now, and Jasmine's on his shoulders and sticking her tongue out at the camera. Greg is laughing. Sherlock and John are making out against the fence by 221.

John stops there and squints. Just to be sure he's seeing what he's seeing. Then he closes his eyes. Opens them. Purses his lips. Blinks. Blinks again. "Right. Okay," John starts, but doesn't know how to finish. "Okay," he repeats lamely. "First. My first question is—who the _hell_ took these photos?"

"Molly. She left a note," Sherlock answers easily.

"Molly," John says, surprised. "She was there? Why isn't she in any of the pictures?"

"In the note she said she didn't want to drink so she was, quote, 'more than happy to take all the photos. Wishing a Happy Birthday to Greg xoxo,' end quote."

"…right," John says slowly. "I see." He shuts the laptop closed with a click, leaving him and Sherlock in a decidedly awkward silence.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Actually. If you'll excuse me. I have work. To do."

"Yeah. Right. Of course. Definitely. Sorry," John says, rising from the seat. John gets up too quickly and Sherlock moves forward too quickly and they crash into each other.

"Oh I'm—"

"I didn't—"

"Sorry, I'm just going to—"

"It's—no, it's fine."

John suddenly catches a whiff of something and he tries to remain calm. "Hang on. Sherlock."

Sherlock's lip twitches. "Yes?"

"Why, for the love of god, do you smell like _chocolate?"_


End file.
